


Get a Handle On

by unsettled



Series: Deep End [3]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Armor Kink, Consent Issues, Established Relationship, Held Down, Inappropriate use of the Iron Man Armor, Iron Man Suit Kink, Kinktober, M/M, POV Quentin Beck, Pre AoU, Shit, Too late now, Voyeurism, insuficiant aftercare, quentin is in way over his head, slightly darker Tony, why yes this is a series now, younger Quentin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-22
Updated: 2020-10-22
Packaged: 2021-03-08 22:42:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27154001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unsettled/pseuds/unsettled
Summary: Tony likes watching Quentin, which is fine. He likes the thought of seeing someone else fuck Quentin, which is less fine because Tony does not share.But Tony’s really good at getting what he wants.
Relationships: Quentin Beck/Tony Stark
Series: Deep End [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1982066
Comments: 9
Kudos: 24
Collections: Unsettled's Kinktober 2020





	Get a Handle On

Quentin feels like he can't breathe.

It's not just the way his face is smashed down into the bed, his arms caught and held in the small of his back in an unbreakable grip. Not just the way those big, cool, metal fingers are in him, are spreading him open and making him squirm, making him fight the way he's trapped with gold metal shins holding his legs down, ass shoved up, and he's going to have all kinds of bruises tomorrow.

It's not even the nervous, edgy sense of fear, how he's more than a little worried about the suit holding him down, using him. How it's so big, so strong, so heavy— if something went wrong, even if it just fell on him, what could he do about it? How could he possibly keep from being hurt? What if Tony wanted him to be hurt?

That's more than enough to make his breath catch, make him feel lightheaded, but it's not any of those things.

"Quentin. Look at me."

He turns his head as much as he can, his neck protesting, and even then he can just barely see Tony over the scrunched up bedding. Can see just enough of how Tony's sitting back and watching, pants open and dick out, and it's that, it's that— 

It's how Tony had told him, "I want to watch you getting fucked, really well used." Had smirked at Quentin and said, "I know you'll like it, won't you. With your little exhibitionist streak, this'll be a dream come true for you." Had said, "The problem is, I don't share well. But I have a solution for that," and then the Iron Man armor had walked in and all Quentin could do was stare.

It's how he'd thought about the armor fucking him, pinning him down and using him for Tony to watch, and the hot flare of arousal hadn't quite matched the pit that opened in his stomach. He'd thought, the first time, that he could handle Tony, that he could match Tony. And he had that time, had shown himself off and Tony had watched, Tony had wanted because Quentin let him. 

He'd thought he could handle Tony, and he'd kept thinking that right through the first few orgasms, the next time Tony wanted him. He'd thought— he'd still thought, through the next couple, that it was fine to let Tony have the upper hand for a bit, because it was hot, because turnabout was fair play.

And then Tony had sent him home, hours later, barely able to walk and his eyes still red and swollen from tears. Had tucked him almost tenderly into the back of the car he called up and kissed him and told him he'd been beautiful, had fucked like a dream. Had told Quentin he'd go a little easier on him, the next time, and when Quentin was finally home he'd curled up on his bed—not sat, he wasn't going to want to sit for a while—and shook and not been sure how he felt about any of it. He'd come, again and again, and he'd been so turned on he kept begging even after he got what he begged for, and he'd flushed and preened under Tony's gaze, his praise. It'd been— good, and he could handle whatever this was, this shaky, terrified, hollowed out feeling that clawed at him. He wasn’t _scared,_ for fuck’s sake. 

He could handle it, because he wasn't at all sure he could handle Tony. He might--he might have gotten in a little too deep, with Tony.

But he'd came the next time Tony called. He'd nodded when Tony asked if he'd like the armor to make him scream, and he'd thought about all the things Tony had promised, the extra funding to his project and extra attention and knowing that his job would never be at risk if this kept up. Had thought about what the hell might happen if he ended this, and said "Please, Tony."

"I said look at me."

Quentin opens his eyes; doesn't even remember when they shut. "Please," he whispers. "I want more." The gauntlet's fingers feel huge inside him and he has no idea how big the cock Tony's put on it is going to be, but the fingers aren't enough. He doesn't want to be thinking about anything other than how he feels, than how close he is to coming and how turned on Tony is watching him.

"More?" Tony says. "You've already got three in you. I know you can't handle much more than that without coming. And you like things to last, don't you?"

"If this lasts as long as last time," Quentin manages, "you're going to use me right up." Those fingers curl in him, hard, and Quentin gasps, jerking against the armor's hold despite himself, uselessly.

"It's a good thing I like your smart-ass mouth," Tony says, grinning. "Otherwise you'd be in so much trouble because you just can't stop yourself."

All Quentin can do is moan, turning his face back into the bed, those horrible metal fingers stretching him open further. "Oh, alright," Tony says. "I'll switch it up," and the armor moves, its fingers pulling out of Quentin and leaving him so empty, aching. Lets go of his arms, Quentin groaning as his shoulders ease, but he only gets a moment before the gauntlets are back on him, closed around his wrists and pulling them up above his head. It presses them down into the bed, spread apart, and stills. There's the sound of movement to the side, footsteps; "Don't make me keep having to remind you to look at me."

Quentin lifts his head as much as he can. Tony's come round to the end of the bed, right in front of him, sprawled out, dick in his hand. Says something Quentin doesn't quite catch, and then there's a long, hard piece of metal sliding along his ass, slick and cold. He shudders, keeping his eyes on Tony, seeing the way Tony's expression darkens, his cock twitching. "Let's see it," Tony says.

It's _big,_ and so much more unyielding than flesh; it burns as it pushes into him and Quentin gasps, trying to squirm away from it helplessly. He can't imagine what his expression must be, eyes wide and mouth open, panting, but Tony groans. "Fuck," he whispers, "god, you're pretty like this," and Quentin's never wanted to hide like this before.

The armor feels like it's going to sink into him forever, but it ends, the cold metal of the plates pressing against Quentin's ass. Slides out a bit, and then snaps its hips forward, fucking him smoothly, relentlessly. It's like a machine, consistent regardless of how Quentin wriggles under it, how he fights and begs, because it is a machine, god, he's being fucked by the fucking Iron Man armor, how is this real?

Tony's jerking himself off, watching, flushed and groaning softly. "Tony," Quentin says, "Tony, please, I'm— it's so— _Tony,"_ and he feels so strung out and desperate for something.

"Hmm?" Tony says, like he doesn't know better than Quentin what he's begging for.

"Don't you want a better view?" Quentin tries, desperately. "Didn't you say you wanted to watch me come?"

"I said I wanted to see you fucked," Tony says, his eyes on the armor, thrusting away. "And I'm getting plenty of that."

Quentin moans as much under his breath as he can manage, and then the armor's fucking him faster, harder. He jerks, reduced to begging again. "Please," he says, "please, I need it."

"Need what?" Tony says, the absolute bastard. "Tell me, exactly."

"Fuck," Quentin says, the armor's pounding forcing his breath out harshly, distorting his words. "I— I need to come, need you to see me come. Need to know you came from seeing me like this, need— need you to see more, see everything, please."

"There you go, handsome," Tony says, and his expression is soft, amused. "I knew you'd be a sweet cockslut, after last time. Doesn't matter how much of a tease you are, once you're on someone's cock all you can do is beg for more." 

He’s not; he likes sex, but he’s not desperate for it. He doesn’t beg unless it’s for fun, playing at it. 

This doesn’t feel like a game. 

"Pull him up," Tony says, and the armor moves, thrusting in all the way and then letting go of Quentin's wrists, catching him around the chest and waist and yanking him up, back. He winds up leaning back against the bumpy surface of the armor, kneeling over its lap. His knees don't even touch the bed, spread too wide over the armor's thighs, and he has to dig his toes into the bed as much as he can, unsteady. Quentin reaches forward, trying to balance himself that way, and the armor grabs his wrists again, pulling them back along his sides until he's completely off balance, unable to do anything but grind down onto the armor's cock.

Quentin's so exposed like this, spread out on display and normally he fucking loves that, loves knowing he's attracting attention. He's got Tony's attention for sure, Tony's gaze wandering over his body, everything he couldn't see a moment ago. "You had a point," Tony says. "This is a better view. Fuck, look at you. You're worth every single penny I put into your department."

The suit catches Quentin's hips then, its hands so big they just trap Quentin's wrists between the two, pulling him up off its cock a bit. Holds him there, his knees even further from the bed, and start fucking up into him, fast, short strokes. Quentin whimpers, feeling so sore and raw, aching already, and barely keeps himself from closing his eyes, from looking away from Tony. Tony's hand is moving slower on his dick, stopping and squeezing his balls at one point, saving himself for something Quentin doesn't even want to think about. Not that he can think about much, the way the armor's thrusts are jarring him, pulling against its grip; he's going to have massive bruises, going to have to wear long sleeves for weeks. "Tony," he moans, mindlessly, repetitive.

Tony laughs. "Didn't take much to get you cockstupid," he says. "Not such a tease now, are you."

Quentin shakes his head; let Tony take it however he wants, agreement or denial, Quentin doesn't care. The armor moves him, shifts him around until Quentin sucks in a sharp breath and oh, god, fuck, he can't bear this, can't handle that sort of pressure on his prostate when he's already so overwrought.

"Come on, sweetheart," Tony says, roughly. "You know what I want to see."

He does, he does; he knows how much Tony wants to see him come on the armor's cock, and he's going to, he doesn't have a choice in that. He can feel it building, making him pant harder, squirm.

"Say—" he gasps, "say please," and it wasn't supposed to come out that desperate, that close to begging.

Tony grins, sudden and bright. "You little shit," he says, but he sounds almost pleased. _"Please."_

Quentin shudders, closing his eyes for a second without a thought, and then he's jerking harder in the armor's grip, his cock twitching. It hurts to come, the armor not pausing for even a second, and he very nearly does scream when it just keeps going.

"Freeze," Tony snaps, and the armor stills but Quentin can't, fighting and twisting against its hold. "Retract," and the metal cock in his ass shrinks, slides out entirely, leaving him feeling like he must be gaping open.

"Spread him," Tony says, and Quentin only has a second to feel despair before the armor's gauntlets are under his thighs, pulling his legs up and out and pressing him hard back against its chest. Quentin groans, his head jerking back and hitting the chest of the armor painfully, feels like that edge where the reactor sits. "Fuck," Tony says, "looks like that hurts, baby; you're all red, puffy. Stretched wide open," and somehow it comes as a shock when Quentin feels Tony's cock pushing against his ass, sinking into him.

It hurts, Jesus, fuck, it hurts, but it feels so good. Tony's cock is so warm, so much softer and better than the armor's, almost soothing. "God, Tony," Quentin breathes out, "please, _please,"_ and he can reach forward this time, can grasp at Tony's sides as Tony presses up against Quentin's chest, can cling to him as Tony starts fucking him. He's caught between the two, cool hard metal at his back, indenting his skin as he's pushed against it; warm, soft, sweaty skin at his chest, sticking to his, Tony's hands in his hair, digging into the curve of his ass.

"Not going to last," Tony mutters, fucking him hard and fast, frantic. "Barely managed to last just watching you; fuck, you're so loose, so goddamn hot, gonna have to give you something so good—" He kisses Quentin, hands tightening and groaning into his mouth as he slams into Quentin and comes.

Kisses him a little more after a minute, deep, soft kisses, and Quentin's not quite as responsive as he should be, feeling too fragmented to be much good. "Let him go," Tony says; the armor lowers Quentin's legs rather than just dropping him, and he slides off its lap into Tony's. Tony tips them over, curled together and Quentin doesn't protest when Tony starts petting his hair, smoothing his fingers down the side of Quentin's face, along his jaw. Stares at him, meeting his eyes even though they're more than half closed. Quentin shudders.

"You know," Quentin says after a few minutes, his words feeling slow to come, thick in his mouth. "You— aren't you worried you've set an impossible standard here? Letting the suit fuck me?" Tony makes an inquisitive little hum. "After all, it doesn't get tired, doesn't get soft, doesn't need a break. No human can live up to that."

Tony laughs, softly. "Yeah," he says, and that's the beginning of a smirk on his face, "but would you really choose it over me? Because you're right; it never gets tired, never needs a break. But you do, don't you, handsome?"

Quentin shudders. "Okay," he says, "okay, yes, that's— ugh, you've made your point."

He doesn't like Tony's smirk one bit, not when it's still there after he leans in and kisses Quentin, not when it grows when he glances over Quentin's shoulder. "One more thing," he says.

Rolls Quentin over, pressing up against his back. "Do you see that?" Tony asks, getting a hand in Quentin's hair and directing his head down. "See the mess you made?"

Yes, yes he can, fuck. There's drops of come on the legs of the armor, and more, higher, on the insides of its thighs. Quentin's and Tony's both, and Quentin is suddenly more aware of the wetness at his ass, the slow slide of what's left of Tony's come leaking out of him. He feels his face heat.

"Don't you think you should clean that up?" Tony whispers in his ear. "Looks like we just keep finding more uses for your smart mouth." Quentin jerks in his arms.

When he licks the armor, it tastes like nickel, sharper than copper, or iron. 

Bitter.


End file.
